


Emergency Contact

by blueunbroken



Category: Sands of Arawiya - Hafsah Faizal, We Hunt the Flame
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Businessmen, Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Hospitals, Light Angst, Misunderstandings, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Tumblr Prompt, altair is a good brother, blink and you miss it kinda angst, like really light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23913244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueunbroken/pseuds/blueunbroken
Summary: “Peace unto you. This is Owais from the Haytham General Hospital. Zafira Iskandar has just been admitted via ambulance, and is unconscious. Your number is listed as her emergency contact.”(or: overworked businessman nasir ghameq receives a call from the hospital saying he's the emergency contact for zafira iskandar and needs to come immediately—he doesn't know any zafira iskandars, but he goes anyway.)
Relationships: Zafira Iskandar/Nasir Ghameq
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. All Your Lights Are Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nasir sighs, running his fingers over the table, dipping into the ridges in the wood. “There’s been a hit-and-run, and my number was listed as the emergency contact for the injured. I’m needed for…” His face pinches. “Moral support?” 
> 
> Kifah barks a laugh at that, and Benyamin snickers. Altair cackles. Nasir frowns. How was that funny?

Nasir Ghameq is 23 years old and growing increasingly stressed. 

He can feel a migraine coming, and he's two seconds away from murdering someone. 

And the golden-haired man sitting in front of him, feet propped up on the grand mahogany desk, isn't exactly helping his case. Altair al-Bedawi lifts a steaming cup of coffee to his lips, blue eyes never leaving Nasir's as he takes a large gulp—and promptly spews it back into the cup. 

Nasir takes a long, deep breath. Murder wouldn't do his public image any good, but if the oaf got any of that disgusting liquid on _Nasir's_ table—his _brand_ _new_ table—Nasir would make him lick it up. 

Altair's boisterous laugh alerts him to the fact that he spoke aloud, and Nasir pinches the bridge of his nose. Does he need sleep? Yes. Will he get to sleep? No, because he has to finish his work, and this too-happy idiot is keeping him from it.

"Nasir, brother darling, comrade in arms, love of my life—"

"No. Get your filthy feet off." Nasir scowls, leaning forward to shove Altair's feet off his desk, fully aware that he's borderline whining. But he puts his _food_ there. 

Altair gasps, a pout forming. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean 'no, I'm not going to be roped into whatever it is you plan on making me do by trying to butter me up,' now stop pouting," Nasir replies primly. A pause, then, "You look ridiculous."

Altair rolls his eyes, pushing himself out of Nasir's chair, pout gone and a frown replacing it. "You've been here for a whole week, Nasir. Have you slept? Have you even eaten? You haven't stopped by the apartment to cook yourself anything, and Kifah told me you haven't even ordered any takeout." 

"Just because I don't order anything from Al-Habibiz doesn't mean I haven't ordered anything," Nasir grouches as he slumps into his chair with a sigh, reaching out to straighten the name plate emblazoned with 'NASIR GHAMEQ' and in smaller font beneath it: 'CEO OF GHAMEQ INDUSTRIES'. 

Altair shoots him an affronted look. "The only takeout worth eating is Al-Habibiz." 

"It's the only thing _you_ eat, anyway," Nasir grumbles back petulantly as he reorganizes papers Altair had clearly been rifling through. He hasn't had any human interaction in a week. Sue him for not having a better comeback. And anyway, he has eaten. The granola bar wrappers in his dustbin are proof. "You can't cook to save your life—" Nasir pales. "Altair." 

Altair beams at that and Nasir bites his tongue. His brother picks something off the chair meant for business partners, and not the monstrosity Nasir is sure is waiting for him in the tupperware container in Altair's hands. 

"Please tell me you didn't—"

Altair only beams brighter, placing the damp-looking container on the desk— _on top of the bare wood—_ and prying open the lid. 

Nasir stares, horrified.

"What—what is this?" Nasir lifts his gaze from the charred massacre in front of him to see his brother watching him expectantly.

"I was watching a cooking tutorial on how to make mendhi rice, and you're the first person to try it!" Altair grins, clearly pleased with himself. 

A beat passes, and he can see Altair's face beginning to droop, so Nasir musters up a smile, ready to subject himself to the torture of eating _whatever_ it is when—

 _YOU ARE MY PUDDING WUDDING SUNSHINE CUP—_ sings Altair's shirt, and the man scrambles to pick it up.

"Beny!" He cheers into the phone, megawatt smile back on in full force. Nasir tears his gaze away, knowing full well he doesn’t deserve the man standing before him. Altair was Arawiya’s golden child, the face of most industries and spokesperson of the Six Sisters Charity Foundation, yet he still found time to look after his sad recluse and eternal grouch of a brother. 

A hand flapping in front of his face had him shaking his head quickly. "I'm awake, I’m awake."

Nasir blinks blearily up at Altair, just in time to see his face transform from an expression of concern to an amused one. "Riiiiiight," his brother smirks, "So that means you're up for a trip downtown?" And before Nasir can begin to protest, Altair is already prattling away: "He'll come! Text me the restaurant’s address, we're leaving now."

Nasir gapes at him. "We are?"

"We are!" Altair responds cheerily, and all Nasir wants to do is crawl under his table and die like the sad man he is. But he still has to file his tax returns.

With a sigh, Nasir heaves himself off his chair, already mourning the loss of it. He lets himself be dragged down the hall and into the elevator and out again, Altair aiming cheerful hellos and goodbyes at the staff they pass while Nasir prides himself in managing a few grumbles here and there. And then he's being shoved into Altair's too-bright sports car. 

(It’s pink. And Nasir had to help him paint it—which was no one’s fault but his own, because: 

“Isn’t this considered wasting money?” he’d asked when Altair had dragged him to the car dealership to fawn over the most expensive sports cars in the market.

Altair’s eyes had widened in shock, and he’d nodded vigorously. “You’re right—we can just buy an old one and paint it.” 

“We?”

And that was how Nasir, self-made billionaire and third-most wanted bachelor in Arawiya (Altair was first, unfortunately for Nasir’s ego, and some pudgy-cheeked boy named Deen Ra’ad was second), had found himself dumping acrylic on top of his brother’s car. 

“Isn’t this... too bright?”

“It’s soft pink.” Altair had replied, as though that made it any better.

“It’s _bright_ pink.”

“No, it’s called ‘Flamingo’ for a reason.” 

“...”

“What?”

“You’ve never seen a flamingo, have you?”)

Nasir takes one look at the hot pink dashboard in front of him and decides it's best to just keep his eyes closed. 

♦

Nasir blinks away the haze of sleep clouding him at the sound of a shutter going off. A muted giggle has him squinting to his side, where Altair is hunched over the steering wheel, grinning as he taps away on his phone. 

Nasir’s own phone pings a second later. And then continues to ping, even after he yanks it out of his pocket to glare sleepily at it. 

_GROUP CHAT_ : The Tea Room

dramaqueen: *sent a picture*

dramaqueen: nasir pouts when he sleeps

benyaminhaadi: aw. cute!! 

KInaFAH: is he drooling 

dramaqueen: hes awake iM DEAD

cravingdeath: tf

dramaqueen: tell my fish i loved him ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ 

Nasir looks up from the unflattering image of himself, meeting Altair’s sheepish grin with a scowl, and then—someone knocks on his window. Altair’s expression morphs into one of joy, and Nasir sighs, turning around to find Benyamin’s bespectacled face peering back at him. _Please don’t kill him_ , he mouths. Nasir narrows his eyes at him, and then shoves his door open, connecting with the older man’s stomach and making him stumble back with a pained _oof_. 

He slides out of the car, slamming the door just to annoy Altair, and he’s rewarded with an indignant _hey!_ Benyamin watches them with an annoyingly fond look, his umber, feline-like eyes warm. The tattoo curving around his left eye was stark against his golden skin. Nasir had met the business consultant years ago, when he’d started his company with his own money, striving to make a name for himself separate from his father. Benyamin had been the best in the industry, but whenever Nasir had need of him, he’d drop everything to help, something Nasir hadn’t understood until he found out that the man was his brother’s best friend, and had started to look after him whenever Altair couldn’t. 

The three of them make their way to the restaurant's front, where Kifah leans against the wall, dark skin glowing beneath the waning sunlight. Nasir squints up at the neon sign above her: ARABY’S. 

“‘The only place worth eating is Al-Habibz,’” Nasir mocks as Altair pulls out his phone to snap a picture of Kifah framed beneath the sign. Nasir briefly wonders if he should mute his phone, knowing it would be blowing up with notifications once Altair posted it and tagged the three of them. 

(It’s only later, much later, does he realize how much his life changed with the decision not to.) 

“Isn’t going to another restaurant while being a restaurant owner the same as cheating on someone?” Altair asks as they join Kifah. 

“It’s called ‘scoping the competition’,” Kifah replies dryly, eyes darting around the homey restaurant.

“This is considered competition?” Altair snorts. “The owner of the only five-star restaurant in Arawiya is intimidated by this tiny place.” 

“It _has,_ ” Benyamin begins in the slow drawl of his, over Kifah’s protest of ' _I'm not intimidated''_ , “been receiving many reviews on Yowl, apparently favored by couples wishing for a romantic meal.” 

A waiter waves them over to a table in the corner of the small expanse, and Nasir sinks into a chair, letting the others squabble over who gets to sit by who. (Benyamin ends up sitting next to Nasir, claiming he’d missed him with a warm smile, and Kifah gripes about having to sit next to Altair who’ll only steal food from her plate.) The restaurant _is_ tiny, but charming, and Nasir is content. And for the first time that week, he can feel some of his stress fading away, replaced by warmth at his friends’ familiar raillery, knowing full-well that they’d only come here because of him. 

They’re halfway through their meal and at the cusp of a conversation of whether a tiger or a shark would win in a fight when it happens. _It_ being Nasir’s phone— _who even uses the default tone_ , Altair mutters—ringing. 

There’s only one other person who would call him that wasn’t sitting at the table in front of him: his mother. He resists the urge to bang his head on his desk. _If it’s about the accounts again—_

“Peace unto you,” comes a voice that is certainly not his mother’s, “This is Owais from the Haytham General Hospital. Zafira Iskandar has just been admitted via ambulance, and is unconscious. Your number is listed as her emergency contact.” 

Nasir snaps up straight. He almost spits out a _who?_ before schooling his features, his friends falling silent. For all he knew, this could be a new name his mother has taken a liking to. 

“Of course,” he replies smoothly, “May I know what happened?”

Across from him, Kifah’s eyebrows shoot up and Benyamin frowns at him. He waves them off.

“Ms. Iskandar was in a hit-and-run, unfortunately. She’s stable, though we believe she might have a concussion,” the man says, his voice kind.

“That’s… terrible,” Nasir tries to make his voice as sympathetic as he can, knowing he’s failed when Altair snickers beside him. Nasir contemplates giving _him_ a concussion. “I’ll be right there.” 

“Just stop by reception when you arrive, and you’ll be sent to her room. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Nasir says again, and then cuts the call. 

He looks around at his friends, all of them waiting for an explanation. When he doesn’t speak, the others do. 

“I’m taking it that wasn’t our darling mother?” 

“Is Anadil in the hospital?” Ah, Benyamin, the ever perceptive.

“Was there an attempt on your life?”

The three of them look to Kifah. She lifts an eyebrow in response.

Nasir sighs, running his fingers over the table, dipping into the ridges in the wood. “There’s been a hit-and-run, and my number was listed as the emergency contact for the injured. I’m needed for…” His face pinches. “Moral support?” 

Kifah barks a laugh at that, and Benyamin snickers. Altair cackles. Nasir frowns. How was that funny?

“Ugh,” Altair wipes away an imaginary tear, “His mind.” 

“Please get off of stan twitter,” Kifah grouses.

Benyamin fixes Nasir with a pointed glance as the other two begin to squabble. “It isn’t your mother, is it?” 

Nasir digs his nails into the wood. “Do any of you know a Zafira Iskandar?”

None of them pause to think—they only really know each other, after all—and Benyamin sighs. “Shouldn’t we get going, then?”

♦

This time, Benyamin drove. Kifah had already called shotgun, and so Nasir was forced to be the recipient of Altair’s overly-affectionate hugs in the backseat. _What is this,_ Nasir had snarled. _They’re called cuddles_ , Altair had said. _Disgusting_ , Kifah had laughed. _Do it again._ Which was why, as Nasir and Benyamin strode through the hospital doors, Altair and Kifah trailed behind them, fighting over tumblr. 

This was why Nasir stuck to Instagram. 

The hospital looks the same as any other facility of its kind: white walls, overbearing, quiet. Nasir has always hated hospitals. Benyamin and Kifah settle into the plastic chairs of the lobby, and Nasir shoots Altair a questioning look when he doesn’t make to follow them.

His brother waggles his eyebrows. “We both know you need someone to give _you_ moral support when you’re giving someone else moral support.” 

Nasir scowls, but is grateful for his brother’s company, as he makes his way to the reception, where a gray-haired man taps away at his computer. At their approach, the man looks up, glasses sliding forward. 

“Peace unto you,” the man greets, voice pleasant. _Owais_ , the man on the phone. “How can I help you?”

“Peace unto you,” Nasir replies, “I was called here a moment ago, as the emergency contact for Zafira Iskandar?” 

“Oh, yes, of course.” The man hums to himself, rifling through the papers stacked beside him. “Ms. Iskandar… ah! She is in Room 514, on the fifth floor.” The man peers up at him with warm brown eyes. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No.” Nasir says and Altair calls out a too-loud _thank you_ to the man as he trails after Nasir.

The two of them shuffle into the elevator, which is empty, save for a boy that looks no older than ten. While Altair busies himself with fixing his hair using the reflecting doors, Nasir takes in his own appearance. His black hair is a mess upon his head, bags underline his gray eyes, and his stubble is just a little overgrown. And his suit looked like he’d been wearing it for days on end. Which wasn’t really a lie. No wonder the child is looking at him like he crawled out of the gutter. 

At the fifth floor, he shoots a tight smile at the judgmental little gremlin and steps out, Altair whistling beside him. The fool would probably make a racket even in death. 

The stark white walls burn Nasir’s eyes, and he struggles to breathe in the air that reeks of disinfectant. _Room 514._ Two hallways and one extremely flirty nurse later, the brothers arrive in front of the door, which is just clicking closed as a doctor emerges.

The man’s black hair is swept back, framing a handsome face and Altair whistles slightly beside him. The man's features are pulled taut, a frown creasing his eyebrows as he scribbles on a clipboard. 

Nasir clears his throat, and the doctor looks up, startled, before he beams. “I’m sorry, are you the patient’s emergency contacts?”

“Yes,” Altair says before Nasir can open his mouth, and Nasir elbows him in the side. _He_ was the emergency contact. Altair ignores him, masking his wince with a smile. “She’s our friend.”

The doctor looks between them.

“Our best friend,” Nasir adds.

“Of course,” the doctor says slowly, but doesn’t prod further. “I’m Doctor Khaldun and I’ve been overseeing her vitals. She should wake up soon, though she’ll be needing quite a bit of rest.”

“I was told she was in a hit-and-run—do you know what happened?” Nasir asks.

“Not much,” Khaldun admits. “She can't remember much about the accident itself, but we do know that the offender backed into her while pulling out a parking lot, and drove away before any bystanders could get a good look at the license plate. She needed stitches on her leg, and we’re hoping there aren’t any more head injuries, though we need to confirm with a few more scans later today.”

Nasir doesn't have to fake his sympathy this time.

The doctor bids them farewell, and then they’re alone in the hall.

They spend a few seconds of staring at the pale door. Then Altair asks, “Should we knock?”

“She has a concussion,” Nasir deadpans. “How’s she supposed to open the door if she’s unconscious?”

“No, she _had_ a concussion, maybe—” 

Nasir ignores him and shoves the door open unceremoniously. 

The girl sitting on the hospital bed, staring wide-eyed back at them, is most certainly not his mother. 

Zafira Iskandar.

“That’s not our mother,” Altair says slowly, as Nasir meets the girl’s cerulean gaze, and when she doesn’t look away, he does. He takes in her dark brown hair, piled atop her head in what must have been a crown braid, before the accident. Her sharp face, all angles and planes. Her bow-shaped lips, which have parted in surprise, and— 

Nasir is aware he’s staring. Rimaal, how could someone look so good after being in a car accident?

And then annoyance has the girl’s nose scrunching and—

“No shit,” Nasir replies.

They stand there awkwardly and then the girl says, mildly: “Are you here to finish the job?”

"Job?" Nasir asks while Altair sputters. "Do we look like assassins?" Case in point: Altair's dark purple pinstripe suit.

A gentle voice chastises someone else's visitor for leaving the door open and the brothers share a glance before stepping into the room. The door shuts with an ominous click in the tense air, and Nasir watches as Zafira tracks the movement. 

Altair steps forward then, but the girl watches Nasir, and he refuses to look away this time. Altair shifts noisily, clearly trying to get the girl's attention and Nasir bites back a laugh at the absurdity of it.

"Altair al-Badawi," his brother says, dipping his head. Zafira's eyes widen in clear recognition, and Nasir rolls his eyes. "And this is your emergency contact," he gestures to Nasir, "Nasir Ghameq."

Zafira only stares. "Nasir Ghameq?" _Of course she wouldn't know who he was. He wasn't a model or_ — "CEO of Ghameq Industries? The biggest oil company in the world? Self-made billionaire? Third most wanted bachelor in Arawiya?"

The girl clamps a hand over her mouth, pink staining her pale cheeks. And maybe it's because of that reaction, the first time he'd seen someone so genuinely _genuine_ that Nasir smirks and asks, "Am I that much of an interesting topic for research?" 

Altair gathers up his slack jaw long enough to gasp out an incredulous, "Is that how you got his number?"

“I—” Zafira’s gaze darts between the two of them, tilting her head in confusion. “Your number?”

“Apparently I’m your emergency contact,” Nasir says. “Though I’m assuming that was a mistake on your part?”

Zafira scrambles for her phone, the dark blue case a splash of color on the silver tray on the bedside table. And it’s only when the girl nearly tumbles out of the bed does Nasir notice the IV stuck in her arm, and rushes forward to help. The girl looks just as surprised as he is at his reaction, but he ignores her look in favor of shoving the phone in her hands.

Nasir watches as she pulls up her contacts with nimble fingers, and there, as her emergency contact—

“Oh. This isn’t Yasmine’s number.” _No, shit_ , Nasir thinks for the nth time today. Zafira looks up with a wince, and Nasir doesn’t think it's the product of pain. “I might have put it in wrong?” 

“And how do I know that’s true, hmm? You seem to know quite a bit about me—I wouldn’t put it past you to have orchestrated the entire ordeal just for me to come to your rescue,” Nasir says, keeping his face as blank as he can while the girl grows angrier by the heartbeat, her eyes narrowing into slits.

Altair lets out a choked sound behind them when Zafira hisses, “My rescue—! I have a broken leg, and you have the _audacity_ to try to—”

And then she’s swiping at him, as best as she can without jostling her leg or the IV, and he tries, he really tries, but she’s in _a hospital bed_ , in _a ridiculously ill-fitting hospital gown_ , looking _like that_ , and—he laughs.

He struggles to pull himself together when the girl _pouts_. Her voice is a little out-of-breath when she speaks again, and Nasir worries that she’s pulled her stitches in her (valiant) attempt to attack him. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you’ve only known him for ten minutes. Wait till you’re married.” Altair says and Nasir whips around, only to find his brother standing there, a dopey grin on his face, and his phone out and recording. 

Murder burns in his veins as he surges toward him. “Delete that.”

“Nope!” Altair sings, ducking away. 

“I will tell mother—”

“Right. Just. Two of the Arawiya’s wealthiest and most sought after men running around my hospital room. Yasmine would love this.” Zafira says dryly, and Nasir jerks to a stop, holding Altair in a headlock as he plucks the older man’s phone from his hand. 

“You don’t understand, Zafira,” he says delicately, “The group chat would never let me live it down.” 

Zafira rolls his eyes as Nasir tries in vain to unlock Altair’s phone and keep him still at the same time. “How did you get Misk to let you in, anyway?”

“We—he—” Altair garbles and gasps, and Nasir lets him go in disdain. When did he change his password? Altair rubs at his throat with a pout, before turning back to Zafira with a genial smile. “We told him we’re your best friends.” 

Zafira snorts. "And he believed you?” 

The brothers exchange affronted glances. "Why wouldn't he?" Nasir ventures. 

Zafira's gaze meets his, and he watches her mouth curve upward to form a pale pink crescent. "He's my childhood best friend. Practically my brother. He knows everyone I know." 

Altair grins and Nasir wants to strangle him again as he sends Zafira an exaggerated wink. "Sounds like he was playing wingman."

Before Zafira can respond, her phone starts ringing, and Nasir bites back a _ha, she uses the default ringer, too_ , when Zafira's face pinches at the caller ID. 

She mutes it and glances up at them. "You can leave now."— _Harsh_ , Altair mutters—"Yasmine, uh, my _actual_ emergency contact, will come as soon as I call her back."

"We can stay," Nasir offers, and immediately regrets it when both of them look at him like he has two heads.

"That's… nice of you to offer." Zafira says, blue eyes wide. "But I don't think I can deal with her meeting Altair, right now."

"What? What did I do?" Altair asks, wounded. 

"Whatever it is, she wants us to leave, and so we'll leave." Nasir says firmly, already heading to the door. They've overstayed their welcome—not that there _was_ a welcome.

Altair's footsteps thump after him, and Nasir has his hand on the door knob when Zafira says, "Nasir! Wait!"

He throws her a glance over his shoulder. She doesn't say anything more, only sits there in her hospital bed, framed by the light filtering through the windows, pink lips parted. In another world, Nasir thinks, her crown braid wouldn’t have been a braid at all, but silver, a queen seated upon a throne of stars instead, and Nasir smiles.

"You have my number, if you ever have need of me, Zafira."


	2. But I'm Green To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zafira is standing on his doorstep, and she’s grinning, despite Nasir holding a very sharp knife aimed at her throat. 
> 
> He blinks. Then blinks again. But she’s still there and he lowers the knife slowly. 
> 
> “Hi!” She chirps, and Nasir might be hallucinating, but he swears he can hear angels singing. 
> 
> “Hi,” Nasir replies, and it’s only then does he realize: “How the fuck did you find me.”

Nasir Ghameq is 23 years old and growing increasingly depressed.

“My baby is in love,” Altair sings from his open closet, flinging suits every which way. 

Nasir, sitting cross-legged on Altair’s bed, heaves a sigh as he catches one, staring in disdain at the sparkling blue fabric before smoothing it out on the bed and folding it. 

“That's the thirteenth time you’ve sighed today,” Altair notes as he dumps more clothes on the bed. 

Nasir shoots him a scowl, before reaching for those to fold them, too. If he doesn’t, Altair will likely end up shoving them all into his bag and then end up crying in his hotel room on the phone to Nasir because he _was sure he packed three pairs of socks, but there’s only three different socks._

Altair flops down beside him, making no move to help, simply staring up at him with shiny blue eyes.

“What?” Nasir grumbles, when Altair doesn’t look away. 

“You’re in love,” he says, “That’s why you’re moping.” 

Nasir shoves him off the bed, allowing himself a smile as his brother grunts and whines, though he quickly hides it when Altair pulls himself back up. 

“I’m not moping,” Nasir deadpans, stacking the folded clothes neatly. “Now put this in the blue one, no—that’s the _yellow_ one—the blue one has the sponsor clothes and suits, and the yellow one has your toiletries and essentials.” 

Altair hums, putting them away accordingly under Nasir’s watchful gaze. “But you’re in love.”

“I can’t be in love with a girl I met _once._ " Nasir sighs, and then realizes his mistake. His face grows hot when Altair slams the bag shut, cackling. "Shut up, _shut up,_ " Nasir grumbles, and that just makes his brother laugh harder.

Benyamin chooses that moment to walk into the room. His gaze lands first on Altair's convulsing body, and then on Nasir, who considers jumping out the window.

"Do I want to know?" The business consultant asks, walking into the room and picking up stray items from the floor as he goes. 

_No,_ Nasir tries to say, but Altair beats him to it, sobering slightly before he throws himself at Benyamin’s feet, clutching his legs: "Benyamin Haadi, our son has grown up. He has a crush. A—" 

Something slams in the kitchen and then Kifah's lightning-quick string of words: "OUR SON HAS A WHAT?"

"Will you all calm down?" Benyamin cuts in, rubbing his temples, as Nasir grumbles _none of you are my parents._ "Altair, finish packing. Nasir, are you wanting to court someone?" 

"Wanting to—to court? This isn't the 1800s." Nasir sputters. Benyamin sits on the bed, long legs folding under him as he watches him with lazy eyes. Nasir sighs. "I've never seen anyone more beautiful."

Altair scoffs. "That's a lie. You've seen _me_."

Benyamin shushes him, watching Nasir, who looks everywhere but at the man and his uncanny ability to read him in ways not even Altair can. "She clearly must have been _something_ if she caught your eye. Perhaps I can get in touch with her for you." 

Nasir twists his fingers together, hearing them pop. "She has my number. It’s been two months, and she hasn’t been in contact."

"Perhaps she's afraid to reach out. Or has been busy resting to speed her recovery, hmm?" Benyamin asks, and Nasir finally meets his gaze. The older man smiles. "Or maybe she's been busy with something else."

And then he's sliding lithely off the bed and sauntering out of the room, cat that he is.

Nasir meets Altair's equally confused gaze. "What," they say at the same time.

"Altair, yalla!" comes Benyamin's voice, and then the front door slams. 

The two of them share another glance before Altair shrugs and stands. He quirks an eyebrow at Nasir's attire: gray sweats and a black t-shirt. "You're not coming to the airport, are you?"

Nasir shakes his head, rolling off the bed. "I have a meeting in half an hour." 

"Then shouldn't you change?" Altair asks, rolling the yellow bag out of the room.

Nasir grabs the blue one, following him. "It's an online conference. I'll just wear a jacket."

Kifah waits for them at the door, a bag of tupperware containers in hand. Nasir's stomach growls at the sight of it as he hands her Altair's luggage.

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "Don't get jealous, this fool can't cook to save his life—I have to make sure he eats something that isn't greasy fast food for at least a few more days." And then, when Nasir doesn't stop staring longingly at the food, she adds, "And I left some in the fridge for you."

Kifah backs out of the apartment, balancing the tupperware on top of the bag as she rolls it out, and Altair makes to follow before stopping in the threshold, waving Kifah off when she looks back. 

"You'll be okay without me?" His brother asks, voice uncharacteristically soft.

Nasir blows out a puff of air. "I'll be alright. I told you—I'm not moping."

Altair studies him for a moment. "Okay. But dont forget I'm always a phone call away, okay?"

Nasir rolls his eyes. "You'll only be gone a month. Now get out." And then he slams the door shut.

A heartbeat passes and then he opens the door again. 

Altair looks back from where he'd made it halfway down the hall.

"Haveasafetrip, bye." Nasir rushes out, and then slams the door shut again, but this time a little harder, to get his message across.

♦

It wasn’t often that Nasir was at the apartment he and Altair shared, choosing to spend most of his day working away in his office—it wasn’t that he had too much to do, he simply prefered the solitude of his work to the loneliness of his freedom. Ever since Nasir had risen to the rank of CEO and Altair had been signed by multiple companies, the brothers rarely saw each other, even at home, and the apartment was usually a mess, since neither found time to clean, except for when their mother scheduled a visit. 

Today, Nasir notes, as he plods into the kitchen, the apartment practically sparkles—a product of Benyamin and Kifah’s combined visit. And usually, he’d have appreciated it, but today, the cleanliness only heightens the emptiness that gnaws at him. 

His father’s voice still rings in his head, ridiculing him even in front of the other board members during the conference, and Nasir slams the fridge closed. Kifah’s leftovers can wait. He scoops out exactly one cup of rice, pouring it into the small rice cooker and washing it before plugging it in and turning it on. He swipes through his music, and settles on a classical playlist. Then he grabs his knives. 

Red splatters the cutting board as he slices through tomatoes, and then potatoes, and a few chilis, and it’s only when he’s begun to chop the onions, burning his eyes, does the doorbell ring, and _continues_ to ring. 

Nasir slams the knife down. If it’s Altair—he picks the knife back up and marches to the door. 

He flings the door open with enough force to send an echoing bang reverberating through the halls, and—

It’s Zafira. 

_Zafira_ is standing on his doorstep, and she’s grinning, despite Nasir holding a very sharp knife aimed at her throat. 

He blinks. Then blinks again. But she’s still there and he lowers the knife slowly. 

“Hi!” She chirps, and Nasir might be hallucinating, but he swears he can hear angels singing. 

“Hi,” Nasir replies, and it’s only then does he realize: “How the fuck did you find me.” 

“I live in the complex beneath you.” 

Nasir opens his mouth. Closes it. “I thought the Haadis lived there?”

Zafira rolls her eyes. “There isn’t just _one_ apartment on the second floor, you know.” And then, as an afterthought. “My family moved in two months ago.” 

_Two months ago, you were in a hospital bed._

Nasir’s ears burn. “But that doesn’t explain how you knew I lived here.” 

She shrugs, lazy and slow. “Benyamin might have let it slip.” 

“How do you know—”

She grins and pushes past him, striding through his apartment with the grace of a deer, or the huntress following it, and he wonders if her leg has already healed. Of course it has—it’s been two months. Nasir shuts the door awkwardly, his feet carrying him to the kitchen where he sets down the knife. Across the open bar, he can see Zafira turning in a slow circle as she takes in the living room with wide eyes. 

Nasir follows her wandering gaze. There are the scimitars Altair had bought on a whim, hung up on the wall right above the TV spanning half the cream-colored wall. There are the potted plants Nasir cares for—despite _Altair_ buying them—sitting beneath the open window, and the dark blue curtain held to either side by tassels. The short mahogany table they had bought from a kind old man at a garage sale, and the multiple coasters placed strategically on it. The fluffy blue rug, and the beige loveseat—which she’s just gone and plopped herself on. 

And then her cerulean gaze is on him, and Nasir drops his own gaze to the chopping board. 

He scoops the vegetables into his hand and dumps them in the pot he’d left on the stove. He studiously avoids looking at the girl on his couch as he turns on the heat, and pours olive oil into the pan, relishing the sizzle he is rewarded with. The rice cooker dings, and he slides it over to scoop out the now-fluffy rice into the pot. Nasir turns to get a stirrer, and—he bites down a yelp. 

Zafira stumbles back from where she’d been hovering over his shoulder, eyes widening and color flooding her pale cheeks. Nasir arches an eyebrow, and when she looks away, he can’t help but grin at her shyness. She chews her lip, clearly searching for words, and his gaze drops to follow the movement. He turns away just as quickly, stirring his rice and adding spices as he does. 

When she finally finds her voice, he isn’t expecting the words: “Why were you crying?” 

He pauses. “What?”

“Earlier. You were crying. When you opened the door,” she clarifies. 

Nasir can’t help the short laugh that bursts out of him, but he masks it quickly enough with a cough, turning off the stove and covering the pan in one smooth motion. “I was cutting onions,” he says. 

He turns to rest against the counter, and—she’s still close. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that his next inhale is one tinted by smokey rose and dark oud. _Rimaal_ , can she smell him? Does he smell bad? He probably smells like onions. Nasir scoots away from the pot as subtly as he can. 

Zafira’s gaze tracks the movement. Rubs the back of her hand against her chest. “Oh.”

The stove shrieks at that moment, putting an end to the awkward silence that hadn’t even started. Nasir whirls back around to quickly shut off the stove, trying to ignore the girl watching him. He throws a quick glance over his shoulder. “Have you eaten?”

She shakes her head, eyes going wide. “No, but—”

“It’s alright,” Nasir says. Because it is. “I made extra anyway.” He hadn’t, but he never ate much, anyway. He goes to grab two plates. Stops. “If you have other plans—”

He isn’t looking at her, but when she replies, her tone is sheepish, and he wonders if she’s blushing again. “I’m free all of today.”

Nasir hides his grin as he sets up the table, sitting cross legged on the floor as Zafira does the same across from him. They’ve only just begun eating, the silence stiff, when Zafira speaks, her voice lilting and teasing. “So, the self-made billionaire knows how to cook.”

He pauses, rice halfway to his mouth, and creasing his eyebrows at her. “It’s concerning how many times you’ve brought my wealth up. Have you come here to rob me?”

She ducks her head, loose strands of her braid falling forward to brush against her cheeks. Nasir resists the urge to reach out and tuck them behind her ear. She chews her lip. “There’s not much else you’ve let anyone know about you.” 

She doesn’t say _there’s not much else to know_ , and Nasir studies her. 

The world has only ever seen him as the boy who had saved his father’s crumbling oil company, buying and selling and negotiating, cutting wages and firing employees for the smallest of mistakes, cold-hearted in his endeavor to make Ghameq Industries a multi-billion dollar company. They didn’t know that every move was dictated by his father, that every mishap of his own and every kindness he showed, was punished until he’d learned to believe the rumors about himself, too. 

The world had only ever seen him as the boy hidden in the shadows behind Altair as he socialized and fraternized with other sponsors during their events for the Six Sisters Charity Foundation. The world didn’t know he’d founded the Six Sisters Charity Foundation, that every profit Ghameq Industries made went to the organization. 

(No one knew he worked as an independent game developer, who had won seven awards, yet never accepted them.)

The world had only ever seen him through the lies they’d been fed, and no one cared for the truth. After all, what was he to the world? What had he ever given it?

Nasir locks away his thoughts when Zafira’s foot presses against his knee, and stays there. When he looks up to meet her gaze, he finds her eyes soft, blue pools searching. 

“I came because I wanted to know more. Because I know what it’s like to hide behind a mask, to hide behind someone else, and I know what it’s like to want someone to notice you. To want someone to know the _real_ you. That day—when you came to the hospital as my emergency contact—you looked so sad. You were behind Altair, and I could barely see you, and when I did, I”—the apples of her cheeks burn bright red but she stumbles on—“I called you out. And—and you laughed.” 

He had, hadn’t he? He doesn’t remember why, only that he did, and that he hadn’t laughed in what felt like ages. He’d barely even smiled for weeks. 

And then, attention-starved as he was, he’d put his all into just a few beats of conversation. She’d _seen_ him, as people rarely did. But—

“Why didn’t you—why didn’t you reach out?”

“I don’t know—I didn’t think you’d want to speak to me.” 

Nasir blinks past the sting of her answer. 

“For a boy everyone knows so little about, you ask a lot of questions,” Zafira says, rising, empty plate in hand. She takes Nasir’s empty one, as well. He hadn’t even noticed he’d finished. “I already told you I’m free for the rest of the day.”

He hurries after her with the now-empty pot, brushing away her protests as he begins to wash them, and she leaves with a quick _where’s the restroom?_

Once he’s done and she still hasn’t returned, he heads to the couch, grabbing his phone as he goes. He’s halfway through the motions of pulling Altair’s contact information before he remembers he can’t call him—not when he’s likely thirty-thousand feet above air. There’s a winking emoji from Benyamin on Instagram, and he swipes the notification. He’s scrolling through his feed when he hears her emerge from the hallway leading to the rooms and bathroom. 

Nasir turns with a small smile, though it fades when he sees her face, eyebrows angled sharply into one another, her mouth set in a flat line. Then his gaze drops to her hands, and—

There is a manila folder in her grip, and anger streaks through his veins. In the space of a second, he surges over the couch to snatch the thin folder from her hands, and takes a neat step back. 

Surprise flashes across her face before her jaw sets. “So it _was_ you.”

“You found them in my room,” he bites. “Who else would it be?”

She scoffs, eyes wide. “Altair? He’s the one that singles out charity cases. Not—not _you_.”

“A charity case?” he echoes. And then her face crumples. And then he understands. And—he can't. Can't be angry. After all, what right does he have? She snooped—

But so had he. 

He drops the folder behind him on the couch. “Is that what you think you are? A charity case?”

“What else would I be?” Zafira’s voice rises. Wavers. “You paid for all of the hospital bills, _and_ donated enough money to replace every single piece of equipment in the hospital.” 

Nasir drops his gaze. What had he been thinking? That she’d thank him? What a fool he was. 

“Aren’t you going to say something?” her voice is soft. 

“What would you have me say? That I’m sorry? Because—because I’m not. And I won’t be,” he says, finally looking back when she shuffles a little towards him. “I hadn’t planned on it—on paying off your bill. But then I saw you on the news. You’re TheHunter, aren’t you? You did a face reveal last week and your two biggest sponsors dropped you, simply because they don’t like the idea of a girl beating every other gamer out there. And you’re no longer allowed to compete for prize money.” Somewhere outside, a car screeches. Nasir pauses, watching Zafira’s face, and the flickering emotions that pass. He sighs. “I just wanted to help.” 

Zafira is quiet, and he marvels, just as quietly, at the way her face shows her every thought. He waits, knowing what’ll come even before she does: disgust and hatred and anger and more anger—

“Okay.” Her voice is small, so small that it hurts him, for having been the one to make it that way. 

His heart twists in his chest. “Okay?”

Zafira’s shoulders lift in a show of nonchalance, but he sees the way they tremble slightly. The way her fingers twitch as she rubs the back of her knuckles against her chest. She releases her lower lip from where she’d been chewing on it, and he watches red bloom. “But I have to pay you back.” 

“You—I—what?” Nasir stutters. “How?”

“My family relies on me for money, and now that I’ve been disqualified from competitions because of my sponsors dropping me, we’re… not doing so well. I should have thanked you the moment I realized you’d paid for the bills, instead of—instead of attacking you. It’s hard to see the good in the world sometimes.”

“I know,” Nasir says softly.

She gives him a small smile. “I hadn’t asked for your help, and yet you knew I needed it, and gave it to me without question. You haven’t asked for anything, so let me give you what I think you need.” 

“And what is that?” he asks. What could a boy with billions of dollars to his name need that a girl with nothing could give? 

He thinks of the way she’d spoken of his money, the way she’d _teased_ him about it. The only time his wealth hadn’t been brought up in jest was when they’d met for the first time. When she’d just been stating a fact. 

“Let me help you stop hiding,” she says. “Let me show you how to be happy.” 

And then she’s moving around him and onto the couch, tucking her legs underneath her as she waits for him to move. The folder sits there, thin and unassuming. Nasir moves it to the table, instead. He sits beside her, and wonders how she can sit there patiently, when every nerve ending of his is on fire—from her words or from her proximity, he doesn’t know.

He looks at his hands, suddenly warm. “And how do you plan on doing that?” 

She shrugs. “I don’t know. But we can start by going paintballing.” 

Nasir blinks. “Paintballing?” 

She simply shrugs again, practically bouncing where she sits. “I’ve always wanted to go paintballing, but Deen’s too much of a coward, and Yasmine’s too violent. And you won’t be wearing a suit or anything fancy. It’ll only get ruined.” 

“Zafira—” 

She arches an eyebrow.

♦

And that’s how Nasir Ghameq finds himself splattered in paint and bruising all over while Zafira Iskandar laughs at him. 

Her head is tipped back, hair a wild mess, stray strands wisping around her like little fairies. Her face is smeared in paint, but it does nothing to hide the rosiness of her cheeks. Her laugh is a quiet sound, soft and earnest like warm honey on his tongue, and Nasir—

Nasir wonders if she’d teach him how to love, too.


End file.
